(( -blows nose- Well, this is it, guys! The last chapter! I just love writing sickly-sweet Mystrade, so there's a bit of that near the end. That is, if Mycroft survives. –shifty eyes- Really, though, thank you for all the support, and thank you for everyone who wrote a review. You all are so brilliant! If you ever want to follow me on Tumblr or keep in contact, it's frankensteinwasnotamonster!))

There was a sickening silence as the blood bloomed over Mycroft's shirt. Mycroft looked just as shocked as Greg did, one plump hand going to gently prod at his chest. A light 'oh' left the aspiring politician and he initially fell to his knees, and then completely onto his stomach.

Sherlock's face was pale, and he very well could have been the Venus de Milo for all the help he looked like he would offer. Greg knew that he had to leap into action, but for a few moments, all he could focus on was the light sloshing of water from the pool.

"Mycroft!" He finally got out, stumbling over to the man and getting to his knees. From there, it was simple. Routine. His mind went back to the injuries class he had taken ages ago, and it was so damn easy to equate that stupid practice dummy to the man in front of him. Strong hands flipped Mycroft over on his back. The impact of the fall had shattered Mycroft's nose, and blood leaked down the man's face. His eyes were shut.

Just in case Mycroft was still conscious, which Greg sincerely doubted, he began to utter soft reassurances. With the reassurances, a bit of panic slipped into his voice – this was Mycroft, the man who had been in the center of every childish, complex feeling he had had for the past few months. Still, though, he began to press against the wound, feeling the blood seep in between his fingers. He reached for his jacket and pressed it over the wound, and soon, that was soaked clean through.

There was so much blood.

Greg didn't fancy himself chicken, because, frankly, he couldn't be. However, he had to suppress the urge to vomit as the smell hit his nose. It was about when he turned his head from Mycroft to take a fresh breath that his eyes fell Sherlock.

He'd never seen Sherlock look like that before.

The boy was positively shaking, though not in a way that hinted at fear. No, it was more akin to the withdrawals he usually had. His eyes were watering, although none fell. His lips were twitching and his entire face was red from the effort.

Looking at Sherlock, it was as if the boy was a bomb, ready to blow at any moment. Or a pot, simmering to a boil. And he was desperately, desperately trying to hold it in.

"Get out of here!"

Was that really Greg's voice?

It sounded much too harsh and much too angry. As if Greg blamed Sherlock for all of this. Which he didn't, not really. At least, not now, not when the situation was too insane and Mycroft was bleeding out between his fingers. That was why he sounded so angry, Greg reasoned – it was just all too mad and Greg was just not a mad person. These two bastards had dragged him into something insane. Exciting, yes, but utterly insane, confusing, complex.

But, hell, he didn't know what he'd do without it anymore.

"Somebody get Sherlock out of here! And call Emergency!" Greg's voice rang out over the pool again, and he was just dimly aware of Sally Donovan pulling Sherlock's arms behind him. As if she were going to arrest him. Sherlock looked frightened out of his mind for a second, but he seemed to lack the strength to fight back. So Greg turned back to Mycroft.

"Hey, Myc, everything's going to be okay. Just a little scrape. Not even a scrape, really, a nick. A nick's all it is." Greg tried to soothe him, pressing down on his chest. Mycroft's eyes fluttered open when Greg pushed harder, and he opened his mouth in a soundless groan. His back arched and recoiled away from him, and Greg felt guilt creep up his back. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Mycroft, but you know I've got to do this. Just keep going strong, yeah?"

"Greh…" The voice came from the politician, and Greg leaned closer to his chest. Mycroft's voice didn't go above a whisper, at any point. "Gregory, I…where's he?"

"Sherlock's gone out. We've got him out. He's okay. I'm okay. You're going to be okay. Everything's fine, yeah, Mycroft? Just keep on breathing for me. It's okay." Greg continued to soothe him.

It seemed ages before the ambulances came, and Mycroft's breathing seemed poor and pitiful. He had tried another few words, short ones, but they hadn't come out. And as Mycroft was loaded onto the ambulance, Greg could've sworn he heard the man's breathing stop completely. He made a move to go on but Sally Donovan took his shoulder and shook her head.

Greg nearly punched her.

Regardless, he stayed back.

He felt such an overwhelming sense of guilt and a need to help that he was shifting from side to side. For a few seconds, it was just normal guilt – a man had been shot, he was being sent to the hospital, and it was unsure as to whether or not he would survive.

Then Greg realized what a load of crock that was.

That man was Mycroft, a man who he had cuddled on the couch and fed food to and shagged when Sherlock was at school. This was the man who had broken up with while Sherlock was sleeping off a drug high in a jail cell, the man he had some sort of strange bond with, the man who, god damn it all, Gregory Lestrade loved.

He was getting pretty damn tired of trying to pretend he didn't.

Granted, there was one curly-haired man who made admitting things like that very difficult.

Speaking of which, Greg's fingers headed toward his mobile, intending to call Sherlock. Make sure he had gotten home okay. That he was okay. For whatever reason (perhaps because Greg didn't trust his voice to keep calm), Greg just slipped his mobile back inside his pocket and left the crime scene. He didn't head home.

Instead, Gregory Lestrade went back to the NSY. There he took a shower and literally washed the blood off his hands, took a fresh change of clothing. It was there that Greg's fingers drifted toward his mobile again, but Sally Donovan intercepted him and told him that he looked like utter shit. He was recommended to go take a lie-down. And, once more, his mobile fell in his pocket and Greg curled up on a cot.

His sleep wasn't pleasant. It was plagued by nightmares and haunts, and when Greg woke again, he was fully covered in sweat. Damn it all. Sleeping at the Yard always gave him nightmares. He had to go up and take another shower again. This time, any thought of calling Sherlock wasn't in his mind. Instead, he headed straight to St. Barts and requested for one Mycroft Holmes. The nurse smiled at him and urged him in.

"I didn't expect you to arrive, Inspector." Mycroft was sitting there, pale-faced, in the center of a private room. He did look awfully pathetic – surrounded by at least three blankets and, still visible, a large white bandage surrounding his upper half. An IV was inserted into his arm. "After all, I don't believe that I paid you a visit while you were in."

"Yeah, well." Greg grinned at him and sat down on the edge of his bed. Suddenly, his grin vanished and he felt…well, nervous. After all, it was just a few hours ago that he had admitted to himself he loved Mycroft Holmes. And it hurt to see him like this and to not be able to touch him. Hold him. Tell him that everything was going to be okay, they were both safe. And all that piss-poor Gregory Lestrade could manage to do was gently move his hand over and cover the top of Mycroft's. "I couldn't leave you alone. Not after seeing you like that, you know? You might have a bit of an emotion problem, Myc, but God, I don't think I'd be able to forgive myself if I didn't visit you."

Mycroft actually gave him a tired smile and reached up to pat the side of his face. Of course Greg suspected that Mycroft might very well be doped up on painkillers, which explained the dull look in his eyes, but he still liked the contact. "During the affair. I saw you running towards him, too, you know. You would have done the same thing. You stupid, silly man. How can London possibly afford to lose you?"

At that, Greg swore that his smile could have split his face in two. It'd been so damn long since he had seen Mycroft, much less feel the man's hand on his face. He was still warm, despite the paleness. "Lose me my arse. It's you that London would collapse without. I was just doing my civic duty, that's all."

Mycroft opened his mouth again, but the mobile rang on the nightstand. His lips pursed and he made a feeble attempt to reach it, but Greg moved his hand away from it. "No. I think you can take a break, Mycroft, honestly. Just you and me for a little while, yeah? I think we need to have a proper conversation, anyway."

"But it could be-"

"Unimportant? Yeah, it very well could be." Greg hesitated for a second, squirming about in his seat, and then he felt a mad sort of urgency overwhelm him. There was nothing like a near-death experience to really motivate him, after all. So he just leaned forward and cut off whatever Mycroft was saying next. Their lips met, and although Greg was sure he tasted of coffee and Mycroft tasted off pills and rubbing alcohol, it was the most brilliant kiss he'd had. Ever, he was certain. Greg's hand went to Mycroft's hair and stroked the back of his head gently. Initially, Mycroft had frozen in his bed, and Greg could nearly hear the alarms going off in his head. Then Mycroft just threw his arms around Greg's neck as best as he could, and they stayed in their embrace for years, it felt like. When Greg finally leaned back, a touch of colour had returned to Mycroft's cheeks.

"You do realize that…Gregory, as much as I would love to…Sherlock won't-" Mycroft protested feebly. Despite his words, one hand went to Greg's, holding it tightly to ensure that Greg wouldn't suddenly leave the room. Greg leaned forward and gave one more short, tender peck.

"He'll be leaving for university in a week or so. And we'll just have to work, alright? Because there isn't a way in hell that I want you to die without knowing how much I love you." Yes, perhaps it was the first time Greg had mentioned it to Mycroft, and perhaps it was a bit not good given the context. Still, Mycroft lit up considerably at it and threw his arms around the man's neck again. The kiss lasted longer.

"Oh, Gregory. I love you, too. So much. It's so…difficult, all of these emotions, and I cannot possibly hope to sort them all out, ever, I believe. But I know that I want to be with you, for as long as I possibly can, and…oh, Gregory!"

He burst into tears.

Holy hell.

Greg was sure that it had something to do with the painkillers, maybe the trauma of the injury, or perhaps it was just the first time anyone had ever said 'I love you' to Mycroft Holmes. And meant it, at any rate. So he just leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, and soon, they were both sobbing like children into each other's arms. It was pathetic to everyone but the two of them, and soon, Greg pulled himself together.

"You're a twit. Getting me crying like this. Everything's fine, eh? Everything is brilliant, now. You love me, and I love you, and that's how it's going to be. Sherlock'll have to learn to live with it, because I'm in love with his damn brother." Greg murmured into his hair, stroking Mycroft's back. Mycroft didn't reply, and Greg got the slightly bemused feeling that he wouldn't be hearing the words 'I love you' from the cold man often. Regardless, Greg just told him, over and over, how much he loved him, how much he adored him, how much he had missed him, how much he always wanted to be with him.

Mycroft eventually managed to pull himself together and just lay there, comfortably resting in Greg's arms. The painkillers seemed to be increasing in dosage, because he soon felt Mycroft's breathing slow down. Still, Greg would occasionally murmur those three fateful words into Mycroft's hair. Only twenty minutes had passed before Mycroft raised one limp hand and pressed it against Greg's cheek. "Check my mobile. Anthea's left a message, I hope."

"Sure, honey, go back to sleep." It was when Greg reached for the mobile that he received a pain in his heart – sharp and stinging, like someone had fired an arrow through it. Sherlock. He'd forgotten about Sherlock. How long had it been? Jesus Christ. Sherlock.

The message was already playing when that thought came to him, and soon, Anthea's chirping young voice sang in through the mobile.

"I've checked his flat, sir. The entire place looked like a twister had hit it, I'm afraid. I've arranged for some cleaning personnel to visit before the good Inspector returns home. There was no sign of him, although his room appears to be entirely cleaned out. No clothes, none of his little trinkets, and some money appears to be gone." There was a slight pause and the ruffle of a paper on the other line. "He left a note, sir, but I don't quite understand. Apparently the good Inspector ordered him to 'get out', he says. And he apologises for getting you shot, of course. He says that he has headed off to University early, and while he expects surveillance from you, he wishes to keep visits from Gregory Lestrade at a minimum. That appears to be all, sir."

The line cut dead and Greg groaned. He picked up his own mobile and dialed Sherlock. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Trying to fight the rising panic in his heart, he dialed Anthea's number from Mycroft's mobile, introduced himself quickly, explained the situation, and told her to get a hold of him. Sometime then, Mycroft stirred by his side and, as if by habit, pressed a kiss against his chest. "What did Anthea say? Is Sherlock alright?"

Greg turned towards him and pursed his lips for a second. "He's…well, he left for University. A week early. Left a letter saying that…you'll be putting surveillance on him, yeah, but he doesn't want to see me much. He's packed everything, stolen a bit of money. I just…Jesus, My. I'm glad he didn't do anything stupid, but the last time I saw him, he looked…like…"

"Looked like what, Gregory?"

"Remember when he relapsed? And you told me that caring wasn't an advantage, and that being alone protected you?"

"Of course I do. It's burned into my memory."

"He looked a trifle like that." Greg mumbled, eyes downcast. Mycroft pushed his head up so that it would brush against Greg's lips.

"He's a Holmes, Gregory. We aren't supposed to have friendships or relationships with people. It's a wonder whenever we can have one. A sincere one, really. And now he feels as if he's ruined the only proper friendship he ever had, and he decided to…cut his losses clean, as it were. Before you start to hate him. It's simple psychology, Gregory."

Greg listened to it and frowned. "I don't hate him, though, and he's got to know that. He knows I love him. Doesn't he?"

Pursing his lips, Mycroft looked away from Greg and pressed his fingers together. "You must realize that for most of our lives, Gregory, we are either ridiculed or feared. Sherlock prefers to be the former, and I prefer to be the latter. He believes that, even if you do apologise and try to amend everything, you shan't mean it. You would only be doing it as your sense of duty, or, worst case, so you can have him back to mock."

"Any hope?"

"Perhaps. Regardless, he shouldn't be disturbed for a long while. Not until he calms down. He will not want to be disturbed." Mycroft responded, his fingers separating and dragging across Greg's face again. "Anthea will keep an eye on him. No drugs. I hope."

It was something Mycroft probably wouldn't understand, because although Greg had seen a very emotional side of him, he just wasn't emotional. But Sherlock had become such a large part of his life. It was like having a son. It was having a son. A son who drove him mad and who made him proud. And now Sherlock was just gone, without a goodbye, and with a request to not see him again. Although Mycroft was here and he was holding him, Greg felt an empty bit in his heart. His head fell on top of Mycroft's, and he swallowed. "Yeah. No drugs. He'll be fine. He was looking forward to Uni, anyhow. He'll have fun there. With…what's-his-name, his roommate. Wilkes."

From the way Mycroft was looking at him, he didn't realize what was wrong. Only the fact that something was wrong. A kiss was placed gently to his jaw. "Gregory?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. Thank you."

Greg's face split into a smile. He didn't ask the cliché 'thank me for what?' question, because he was certain he already knew. Thank you for taking in Sherlock. Thank you for letting me watch him with you. Thank you for defending me when Sherlock insulted me. Thank you for taking care of him. Thank you for helping him. Thank you for comforting him. Thank you for being a friend. Thank you for loving me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

"You know, My?" Greg asked him, his usual energy and warmth returning for a brief second. "It doesn't need a thanks, at all. And I love you."